Ever since my first NaNoWriMo I’ve had an irrational fear of word counts. Don’t have enough words? Too bad, you fail; what you’ve written barely qualifies as a short story. Or so says the raspy-voiced lady in my head. (I should tell her to quit smoking before she loses a lung.)

I set these ambitious word count goals for my projects, like 50,000 or 75,000, and I think to myself, what’s the point? I could probably dribble out 50,000 words in my sleep, but it would drive me batshit if 99% of them were crap. Other writers—better writers—probably wouldn’t care. Those 49,500 craptastic words would be made shiny during editing.

But that is where my phobia is: having to waylay those 49,500 (or even 24,750) words and come up with an equal number of new words. It’s debilitating to think about. I’d rather build it out, adding layers with each edit.

Rather than debilitate myself, I’m looking at writing milestones, such as complete chapters, rather than word count milestones. Sure I’ll still check word counts, but it’s mostly vanity. When all the chapters are complete I’ll go back and add the layers.

My sister woke me up this morning because I was supposed to read her the next chapter in the story. Luckily she’d just gotten off work and felt tired so she gave me an extension ‘til she woke.

I’d much rather have gone back to sleep, but no amount of bodily readjustment could get me back there.  So…I got up, pulled out the notebook (did I neglect to mention that I’m writing this behemoth longhand?) and wrote the next chapter.

Random Uninteresting Fact: the chapter I wrote today had the exact number of words as the previous chapter. And I wasn’t even trying.

When I finished, Multiple Idea Syndrome struck me down momentarily. After I came ‘round, my story’s ending had completely changed, my characters suddenly had layers, and I was a little bit more in love with my project.

Oh, and somehow it decided it needed a companion. For now I’ll let Book 2 take care of itself.

I know I’ve said it before, that I have six (or maybe eleven) unfinished manuscripts trapped in a cobwebbed Banker’s Box cluttering up my office closet.

I know that I’ve tormented my sister with countless stories of which she’ll (probably) never know the end.

But this time will be different. For really.

Come hell or high water, this novel will be written.

How can I be so certain? I’ve started a blog. I have told the world about this endeavor which makes me accountable (to the whole 1.2 people who will likely ever read this).

I’m not even sure why this is so hard a task because I’ve already done it before…and I was only 12 then. OK, the writing was crap and the plot was clichéd, but at least I finished.

So, yeah, hell or high water.